


The fathers of Italia

by MartinEA



Series: I Genitori d'Italia [2]
Category: Il Padre d'Italia (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: Italiano
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartinEA/pseuds/MartinEA
Summary: “Oh ma per favore,” Valerio’s voice was a drawl. “vuoi sapere cosa ho notato, Paolo?”“Sono sicuro che me lo stai per dire-” he muttered as Valerio spoke over him.“-cerchi sempre di farti piccolo. Non credo tu abbia mai lottato per qualcosa in vita tua. Ti autoconvinci e te lo fai andare bene.” Valerio folded his arms over his chest, but it didn't look defensive. He was just making himself comfortable as he leaned back and prepared himself for a speech.-Or: I Padri d'Italia if Tolstoy had written it.
Series: I Genitori d'Italia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093169
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The fathers of Italia

**Author's Note:**

> The translation of the dialogue is completely due to the benevolence of the amazing, the talented, the splendidly multilingual bern at bernard-the-rabbit.tumblr.com/

When Paolo took Italia back home, to his baby-proofed apartment, crib right by his bed, dozens of packs of diapers he’d been told he’d run through pretty quickly, cabinets full of baby formula, bag full of toys and teething rings, he felt a mix of emotions. One was overwhelming, all consuming love for the tiny creature nestled asleep in his arms. 

Another was hubris. 

Surely taking care of a baby would be easy. He’d researched it all before Italia had been fit to leave the hospital. He’d read baby books, forums, stories by single parents who shared their hardships and their triumphs. He felt prepared. Ready. There was a thrum in his veins that sang in his blood as he set tiny Italia in her crib, freshly changed in her pyjamas without her stirring once. He rested his head on his arms and traced her delicate features with his eyes and knew for certain that they were going to get through this. 

And then Italia woke up. And cried. And didn’t stop crying for the following months.

It transpired like this. 

Paolo would wake up early, far too early, by his daughter’s wailing. Half-awake he’d feed her, burp her, and then comfort her in his arms as he got about getting ready for his day. Once it was time for him to leave to go to work (paternity leave was nowhere near good enough to cover for them) he left her with his elderly widowed neighbour who was sore for company and, because of her meager pension, pocket money. He’d get home and hold Italia in his arms and she’d squirm and cough and cry, and he’d rock her through it, confused and tired.

She never stopped crying. The neighbours complained. He kept losing sleep. The GP told him she was healthy, all was well, but watch out for colics. 

This kept up for months. There were the stress and anxieties he had to brace himself against - calling in sick for work and getting no pay for that day, because Assunta had stopped trusting him, Italia constantly wheezing and coughing, Paolo fearful she was going to die due to his own negligence, dying a dozen deaths in the waiting office.

But also.

There was Italia sitting up in her crib, six months old and laughing as he dangled a toy in front of her. There was her rocking herself back and forth, cooing back at him, her beautiful brown eyes looking up at him like he was her world. 

There was Italia, soothed after crying for hours from teething pains, snuffling, crawling up to him and saying something that could’ve approximated “babo” and he’d pulled for his phone to record, laughing happily along with her, joyful in her growth. 

And then crying, harder, when he realized he had no one to share the video with. No one else to witness Italia growing bolder, reaching now for her toys with arms outstretched, her hair growing in beautifully in satin tufts; they were alone the two of them. 

When he clutched her then, face distorted in hiccuping tears, Italia made a distressed rasping sound and started wailing herself, confused and scared. He had to wipe his face and cradle her, shushing her, they were fine. They were alright. 

They would get through this. 

Then his apartment building got condemned. 

Italia was 8 months old at that point, which was the unit of measurement Paolo now used for time. It happened rather quickly. One day he got a letter from his landlord, explaining that they’d found mold and due to the age of the building it couldn’t be contained. They had to leave. Preferably before a month had passed.

He was holding Italia as he read through the letter and idly bouncing her as she sucked on her thumb, dozing against the crook of his neck. He sat down and leaned his head against hers, begging the Lord if he were there to grant him strength. 

Perhaps that was His punishment. He wasn’t meant to have children, so now He was punishing him for his sin by hurling one calamity after another. 

He still didn’t know why Italia kept waking herself up coughing and the GP kept overlooking that whenever he brought it up, and the internet was only giving him horrible explanations and-

That wasn’t going to solve their problems. Worrying wasn’t going to solve anything. He got up and went to put Italia in her crib, so he could pull his laptop out and look for flats in Torino with cheap rent he could move into on short notice. But Italia started crying the moment he was away from her and she woke up, and Paolo was forced to take his laptop to her side of the flat and pull up a chair beside her, so he could balance his laptop on his knees and shush her whenever she squirmed.

There were no cheap flats. And all the ones available he couldn’t move into so soon.

He was beginning to freak out, calling every single number he had on his phone, Italia’s grandma, Assunta, old colleagues - none of them were able or willing to house them.

Desperation clawed its way up his throat and he pulled at his hair, trying to keep in the frustration that wanted to be released in hoarse yelling. He struggled to keep himself in order even for Italia. It was hard to do much of anything, but make calls and refresh listings and beg just for one sliver of mercy from fate.

He got a call one afternoon while he was changing Italia’s diaper, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop as he was reading over another flat listing. He fastened it and scrambled for his phone, hoping it was one of the landlords he’d contacted, or perhaps Assunta who had come through on her promise to ask around. 

It was Mario. 

Jaw clenched, he considered pressing the volume down button and letting his phone silently ring until Mario got tired. He didn’t know how to talk to him now. Remorse and gratitude were a mixed bag and the last thing he wanted right now was the awkwardness that fell over them whenever they talked.

But he also needed a friend the most then. And Mario had been that for him for over eight years before their break up.

“Pronto.”

“Paolo,” his voice was warm as ever, even over the tinny speakers of his phone. He was a mild man, like Paolo, made even milder by the hesitation of their friendship. “É da un po’ che non parliamo. Volevo sapere di te e della bambina. Come va?”

Paolo opened his mouth to answer, then swallowed thickly when he realized he couldn’t lie and say he was fine without choking up. 

“Ci stanno sfrattando,” was all Paolo managed to get out in a rush. “Dobbiamo evacuare in meno di 3 settimane e non abbiamo nessun posto dove stare e lei non la smette di tossire e ho paura-”

The last part was a shaky rasp and his fingers itched for a cigarette, but he kept none, having quit them the moment Italia had come into his life. 

“Puoi stare da noi,” Mario said after a beat of silence and Paolo’s chest squeezed. “Ci- te lo stavo per dire, ma ci siamo trasferiti in Molise di recente. Nella nostra nuova casa ci sono due stanze degli ospiti. Non sono ancora completate, ma dovrebbero andare bene.”

“Non posso. Mario, non posso disturbarti così, hai fatto abbastanza.” There was the familiar prickle of tears and he scrubbed a hand across his face and into his hair.

“Non lo sto facendo solo per te. Tua figlia è la cosa più importante al momento. Non posso lasciarvi per strada. Fai le valigie. Vengo tra qualche giorno con la macchina. Vediamo cosa ci sta.”

Paolo looked over at his daughter, who was preoccupied with one of the curtain tassels hanging over her and swallowed his need to reject his offer and try to find his way out himself. This wasn’t for him. This was for Italia. 

“Okay.”

They exchanged a few more words and then hung up. 

Paolo didn’t thank him, nor did he apologize. He feared that if he began he wouldn’t know where to stop. He had so much to be grateful and sorry for when it came to Mario. 

There was no furniture in the flat that Paolo was unwilling to part with, except for the crib. He disassembled it and fit it into the car like tetris pieces, his own luggage fit into a duffel bag and Italia’s in the biggest suitcase and bag he could find, her pram folded on top. 

He’d worried about how they were going to fit Italia in the car, worrying about it crashing and her being crushed, because they hadn’t followed the guidelines and bought a booster seat. But then Mario had opened the door and he saw that he’d already fastened a baby car seat in the back.

He looked over to Mario, bouncing his daughter on his hip, and Mario saw his expression and smiled, eyes crinkling, bright and kind and tired. 

“I miei nipoti sono cresciuti, quindi ho chiesto a Gaia se me lo poteva dare. Dai, passamela che ti mostro come si allaccia.” He reached out for Italia and Paolo’s arm tightened briefly around her, before he passed her over to Mario, knowing full well he’d be gentle with her. The same way he was in every other aspect of his life. 

Italia was all smiles once she was in his arms and Paolo busied himself with putting his computer bag and personal belongings between the seats, so he wouldn’t have to look at his ex with his child. Mario got distracted the moment she began cooing and took a moment to swing her around a bit to her joyful, giggling delight. When Paolo looked back up Italia was tugging on Mario’s beard and he winced sympathetically.

“Non si tira la barba allo zio Mario,” he reprimanded softly, prying her tiny fingers away. “Ecco fatto, amore.”

He bounced her once, twice, then bent over and placed her and her blanket inside the seat, buckling her in securely. He smiled over his shoulder and winked at Paolo, before he raised himself up and Paolo had to look away, because he didn’t know what the appropriate response was and he felt like he was on thin ice already. 

The drive from Torino to Molise was 870 kilometers. That was 9 hours of straight driving. Made even longer when Mario complained about a driver hogging the fast lane.

“Muoviti, stupido bastardo!” He exclaimed and Italia woke up with a whimper and proceeded to cry in distress over being woken up so rudely. 

Mario immediately pressed a hand to his face, mollified, as Paolo frantically turned around and tried to soothe her, his neck twisting awkwardly, the belt digging into him. 

“Mi accosto, oh mio dio, scusami!”

He pulled over at the first possible emergency spot and they all got out of the car, Paolo immediately going for the car door to lift Italia in his arms and soothe her. She was coughing again now, her crying having tired her out.

Mario was beside him, looking at her with a frown on his face.

"Mi hai detto che tossiva. É normale?"

Paolo whirled around to him. "Non lo so. Ma lo fa spesso e tutte le volte che lo dico al pediatra lui non ci presta troppa attenzione." He sighed, feeling Italia's head slump forward on his shoulder.

“Perché siete dovuti andare via?”

“La lettera di sfratto diceva qualcosa riguardo della muffa nera trovata in uno degli appartamenti di sopra. Non ho prestato molta attenzione dopo la parte dove ci diceva di andare via con così poco preavviso.”

Mario was looking at her with more intensity now, a familiar crease between his eyebrows forming.

“Paolo non dirò nulla perchè ho paura che, se lo faccio, sentirò il bisogno di pestarti e non lo posso fare quando stai tenendo in braccio tua figlia. Appena arrivati a casa chiamiamo una mia amica dottoressa e poi ti urlerò contro per un bel po’ di tempo. Capito?” 

It was a wild change of tone and Paolo nodded minutely, feeling small and helpless. He’d take being yelled if it meant there was another adult with him, taking the reins for once.

Campobasso was the capital of the Molise region, surrounded by the Sannio and Matese mountains. Being so close to the Apennines the late autumn weather was cool and unforgiving as it nipped at Paolo’s cheeks and nose. 

The house where Mario and his boyfriend lived was on Via Venezia, a chain of pale terrace houses backed by the lush greenery of the old town park behind it. He could just make out the top of the Monforte castle, but he had to crane his neck to do so.

A sour man with dark hair in tight curls, a glinting silver earring in one ear and sparse beard was waiting at them outside one of the main entrances. He recognized him after a moment as Valerio - the man he’d pulled away from Mario in a gay club almost a year ago. He winced. That had been the first and last time they’d seen each other and it had probably not left a positive impression. 

He nodded in Paolo’s direction curtly when he exited the car. 

“Dammi la valigia più leggera e questo è l’unico aiuto che ricevi dopo avermi fatto montare un letto degli ospiti da solo,” were his warm words to his boyfriend, before he got all the luggage he’d promised to carry and disappeared up the narrow staircase.

The house itself was spacious. Furnished with what looked to be all new furniture and the remnants of unpeeled tape around the walls signifying a recent paint job. What was most important to him at that moment, though, was the inviting couch in the living room that looked really soft, with a quilted blanket laid on top. After 9 hours of riding in the car he was completely spent and didn't know how Mario had enough energy to whirl around from room to room. 

He probably had to go help, shit. 

He went to rise from where he was laying on the couch, but Valerio stopped him with a dark look, bedsheets and towels gathered in his arms. "Dormi o resta sveglio, non m’importa, ma non provare a fare qualcosa perché ci starai solo tra i piedi. Da ora ci pensiamo noi."

Paolo tried to say thanks, but Valerio was already leaving. He slumped back on the blanket and closed his eyes, promising himself it would be a brief nap.

He woke up in the dark disoriented, head throbbing with pain and mouth dry and his first thought was 'dov’è Italia'.

He got up so fast his head spun and he almost got tangled in the blanket and toppled to the floor. He didn't remember covering himself before knocking himself out. One of them, most likely Mario, must've covered him.

He didn't know where to look for his daughter, behind which door, but then he followed the sounds of his baby's cooing and hushed quiet whispers behind one of the open doors. He walked up to it, light spilling out from the slit, contrasted against the darkness of the corridor.

He was about to push it open and announce himself, before he caught the tail-end of what Valerio was saying.

"- e guarda come la veste. Orrenda. Sei un caso disperato" The last part he said to Italia, who was seated in Mario's lap on the floor next to the legs of the disassembled baby crib. Valerio was holding one of the frames, screwing it in-between gesticulating with the screwdriver.

"Era terribile, Vale. Non so come se la sia cavato da solo tutti questi mesi, ma alla fine non è che andasse molto bene," Mario was playing with her hands, reverently caressing them and placing kisses on the top of her head, making her squirm happily. They look good, Paolo thought. They look like a family ought to. "Mi dispiace che questa piccina abbia abitato lì per così tanto."

Okay. That was enough. He stepped away quietly, then loudly padded over to the door and knocked before pushing it open.

Both of them turned to him, startled and guilty, and Italia used the opportunity to tug on a stray curl from Valerio's mane of hair, making him hiss.

"Dormito bene? Stavi uno schifo," Mario gave him a faint smile and Paolo nodded mutely in response, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. His face turned serious. "Senti, ho chiamato la mia amica pediatra, ha detto che mostra sintomi di asma e sono molto probabilmente causati dall’esposizione alla muffa. Allergeni e tutta quella roba. Abbiamo un appuntamento da lei domani per accertarci di tutto."

He nodded again, struck dumb. Asthma. She had asthma and he couldn't tell. She had been made sick living in his apartment. 

"É una cosa seria Paolo. Poteva soffocare da un momento all’altro, perché non l’hai fatta controllare?"

"Quando ne parlavo col dottore lui ignorava-"

Valerio shot him his iciest look yet. "E allora insisti cazzo! Insisti per essere sicuro che stia bene! puoi essere uno zerbino quanto vuoi nel tuo tempo libero ma non puoi giocare con la vita di tua figlia in questo modo." He snarled and Paolo felt himself made even smaller. 

Italia looked over at him and frowned, her face scrunching up the way it did pre-crying and she started squirming away from Mario, who was trying and failing to placate her. Paolo was by her side immediately, taking her in his arms and shushing her with practiced ease he'd developed over a hundred sleepless nights.

She whined in a familiar way and he turned this way and that looking for her bag, before he saw it on top of an open dresser, already full of carefully folded baby clothes. He took out her binkie out of its cover and she took it eagerly, finally calmer.

"Scusa amore mio. Mi dispiace non essermene accorto. Scusami," he whispered into her soft hair, the words for her ears only. "Presto starai bene. Ti portiamo da un medico come si deve e staremo bene."

They'll be fine. That had become his mantra since she'd become his and he had to believe in that. 

She placed her tiny hand on his stubbled chin and he took it in his to kiss. Maybe one day he'll be forgiven. But not by himself.

Valerio and Mario were looking at him with unreadable expressions on their faces when he turned back to them.

"C’ho preso la mano eh?" He said, his voice frail.

Mario nodded, but then he unfolded his legs and rose, walking towards him. He placed a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder and said, "Eri solo. Ma non lo sei più." 

And then he was being enveloped in one of Mario's comfort half hugs, his forehead falling to the nape of his neck and resting there the same as Italia was doing to his own.

He blinked rapidly, swallowing thickly before pulling away. Life felt a bit lighter now that he had a shoulder to lean on. Even for a brief period of time. Before he found his bearings.

"Ora che abbiamo risolto puoi aiutarmi con questa beata culla, perchè servirebbe finita prima di mezzanotte." That was Valerio's acerbic voice from the floor. He had picked up one of the legs to attach to the frame and was busying himself with it.

Mario snorted and shot him a look over his shoulder, before turning back to Italia.

"Sai, non ci hai mai detto il suo nome," he was stroking her chubby cheek gently.

"Oh! Oh, giusto. Non l’ho introdotta in modo appropriato, non è vero?" Paolo shifted his hold on her to raise her up and turn her towards them. "Questa è Italia. Italia,loro sono Valerio e Mario." He took her tiny arm and raised it in a wave. Italia sucked on her binkie still, looking up at them with her sparkly eyes. 

Utter silence fell over the room. Valerio shut his eyes tightly and pressed his face against the leg of the crib. Mario's face looked pained.

Valerio took a deep breath and then, voice strained, pronounced, " _ É IL NOME PIÙ BRUTTO DI SEMPRE MA SEI COGLIONE _ ?"

Mario tried to shush him, but didn't disagree.

"Non l’ho scelto io," Paolo said weakly.

"Gesù dammi forza. Sembri un fascista se la chiami così." He winced.

"Non è per quel motivo," he protested, but Valerio shook his head.

"Vai a scaldare gli avanzi che sono nel frigo. Mi aiuta Mario con questa."

And that was his dismissal. He did as told and left the two of them to their work, glad to be spared from it a second time.

They took her to the doctor's office in the morning. Mario had taken the week off from his job to help Paolo get settled, so he accompanied him.

The doctor confirmed that, yes, she did have asthma, her airways having swollen up, and prescribed her medication for it. An inhaler with a spacer and a facemask. When the doctor turned to him she had evidently seen whatever distressed expression he was making, and was quick to assure him she was otherwise a healthy young girl.

Keyword "otherwise".

It was something Italia would have to deal with for the rest of her life, due to circumstances that were entirely his fault and that fact plagued Paolo. 

Valerio was a docent at Università degli Studi del Molise, in the department of agriculture and environmental science. He had early lectures most of the time and came home in the afternoon. 

Mario was a researcher at the medical center and kept odd hours. He'd leave earlier than Valerio and return in the evening, if not even later.

Paolo, unemployed and focusing all of his time during the day on taking care of his daughter, doing chores around the house and looking for flats, learned what it meant to be a stay at home parent. 

It was pretty nice.

Much better than his life back in Torino, when he struggled every day just to get by and was drowning in his own overwhelming loneliness and stress.

He had time to actually take her out for walks now, pushing her in her pram along the streets and getting to know Campobasso at the same time as her. They played in the sun and she marveled at the colourful leaves on the ground. And then tried to eat them as she did everything else in her vicinity when Paolo brought the leaves closer for inspection, and then became irritable when she couldn't. 

He also began cooking again. Small things. Easy dishes he'd learned how to make early on in his and Mario's relationship, so he could help him as he got through his doctorate degree. 

Except this time it was for both Mario and Valerio, who were preoccupied with work and already helping enough with Italia for Paolo to wish to unburden them from their kitchen responsibilities at the very least.

Valerio, as was his default with Paolo, was highly critical of his cooking, expressing disdain at every attempt he made. 

He thought it was just his privilege to have Valerio picking him apart about the amount of salt he used, because Valerio didn't make it a secret he despised him. But then one night Mario got back home earlier than usual and had time to fully immerse himself in the kitchen, where he truly excelled, and Valerio flanked him immediately, perching himself up on the counter and scrutinizing his every move.

"Ma ce l'hai messo un po’ di burro nel risotto? sembra sabbia. Sembra anche che sappia di sabbia.” 

Mario’s only response was to huff and put in more butter. 

A little bit later Paolo heard a displeased, “Stai mettendo delle cipolle invece dello scalogno? Mi aspettavo di meglio da te.”

It was 20 minutes after that there was an exasperated exclamation from Mario, “Vale ti amo ma se ridici qualcosa stanotte dormi sul divano.” 

That did not deter Valerio. He kept it up well until mealtime. 

And yet sometimes his comments to Paolo were a bit much. 

He’d made carbonara one night and they were seated as usual. Valerio was as far away from Paolo as he could be while sitting on a round table and Italia was between him and Mario, where they both took turns feeding her.

“Vorrei sapere come tu sia riuscito a cannare la cottura della pasta,” Valerio muttered. “Tua madre non approverebbe.”

Paolo clenched his jaw, not turning away from Italia, who was too excited and fidgety to accept the puree he was trying to feed her. “Non lo so se lo farebbe. Mi ha abbandonato in un orfanotrofio prima che potesse rivelarmi i suoi segreti culinari.”

Valerio snorted, the sound suddenly more irritating than it was usually. “Abbandonerei anche io mio figlio se stracocesse la sua p-” “-Val, no.” 

The chair was screeching behind Paolo before he even realized he was pulling away and getting up from the table. 

“Con permesso”

He still felt a bit shaky and wired as he made his way down the staircase and out into the bitter cold of November. It was his coldest night in Campobasso yet and he hadn’t thought to slip on his jacket before hurrying out the door, but he was angry enough to hit Valerio if he saw him on his way back inside, so he persevered.

He walked aimlessly down familiar streets, made stranger and eerier by the darkness that enveloped them. By the time he’d circled back around to their neighbourhood, he felt more tired and empty than he did angry.

His phone told him it had been two hours since dinner time. He’d been away longer than he thought he would be.

“Sono quasi dispiaciuto tu sia tornato. L’ho detto a Mario che te ne saresti andato con la coda tra le gambe.” 

Valerio. The last person he wanted to see, leaning on the door to the living room.

Paolo looked down as he unlaced his trainers and dropped his key on the shoerack. The couple’s keys had matching souvenir keychains from a trip to Siracusa; Paolo’s was lone and still bearing the sticker it’d had fresh from the box.

“Perchè deve essere tutto un litigio con te?” he muttered, brushing past him to his and Italia’s room. 

“Perchè abbassi sempre la testa e le prendi come un codardo?” countered Valerio. 

Paolo whirled around to him. “Mi dispiace dovervi disturbare con mia figlia, ok? Non lo voglio più di quanto lo voglia tu ma non posso farci niente visto che sto ancora cercando un posto dove andare. Quindi, per favore. La puoi smettere di andarmi contro? Anche solo un po’?”

“Molto coraggioso da parte tua pensare di riuscire a trasferirti e prenderti cura di lei da solo.”

“Cristo Santo, fottiti.”

Valerio shut the door behind himself with less force than he would have liked to and pulled the chair he’d borrowed from the kitchen closer to Italia’s crib. He proceeded to refresh immobiliare.it for the rest of the night.

It was over the weekend when Mario approached him as he was making breakfast (french toast with crisp edges and the right amount of powdered sugar for a 32 year old man- which was most all of it- for Valerio and plain toast for Mario). His daughter was crawling around on the carpet in the adjacent living room and Paolo was fretfully keeping an eye on her while flipping the final toast in the pan, to make sure she didn't eat anything she shouldn't that he hadn't picked up. 

Mario came over to him and leaned on the kitchen table, his own eyes following her.

"Non devi prepararci la colazione ogni mattina."

Paolo shrugged and took a moment to carefully plate and powder Valerio's toasts before he set them on the table. Mario reached out and plucked his own breakfast to nibble on with his tea.

"State facendo un sacco per me e non mi disturba affatto, veramente." Plus he ate no breakfast himself and nor did he drink coffee. So in the mornings after Italia was taken care of and left to roam by herself, he found himself sinking into his own thoughts, which were less than savoury. Nothing short of doing something useful with his hands could get him out of his reveries.

"Sai che non ci dai fastidio vero? Valerio è facilmente irritabile, ma ti vuole qui tanto quanto me. Per tutto il tempo che ti serve."

Paolo found that  _ really _ hard to believe. But he didn't like that he had to rely on them either. He wanted to make it through by himself and if that meant struggling on his own, then so be it. 

His conversation with Valerio had only reminded him of that. He'd grown softer, letting himself bask in all the free time he'd gotten. No good thing ever lasted and he had to nip it in the bud before he got too used to it.

"Paolo?" Mario placed his palm on top of his hand when he took too long to respond. "Cosa si diceva riguardo all’andare dentro la propria testa?"

He shook his head and smiled thinly up at him, picking up a towel to dry the counter from any stray powdered sugar. "Non è niente. Senti, ho qualche appartamento da visitare in queste settimane e mi domandavo se qualcuno di voi potesse badare ad Italia mentre non ci sono? non la voglio portare con me."

Mario's face fell for a moment and Paolo couldn't understand why. "Certo, io-Sì. Sì possiamo organizzare qualcosa. Ma-"

Whatever he'd been meaning to say was cut off by Valerio, exclaiming, "Chi ha lasciato questa cimice sul pavimento? Non guardarmi così puzzi un sacco."

Paolo and Mario both watched as Valerio, laptop half open in his hands, tried to get on the couch without stepping on her. He set his laptop down on the coffee table and Italia used the opportunity to brace herself against his leg and heave herself upright. Then she stretched her arms up toward him, face imploring and making the same babbling noises she did whenever she wanted to be lifted up.

"Su, su!" 

"Paolo vieni a prendere la tua progenie, sta prendendo un granchio."

Italia kept reaching out. "Su, su!"

Valerio wasn't moving.

Paolo threw the towel down on the counter forcefully.

"Non morde se è quello di cui sei spaventato," he snarled. Valerio shot him one of his signature dark looks. He wasn't backing down, but he also wasn't stepping away to dislodge her.

Italia was slowly growing frustrated with being ignored and instead began tugging on his pantleg.

"Per l’amor del cielo Paolo Proietti vieni a prendere la tua bambina e basta!"

"La prendo io," Mario interjected before he could respond and took two strides to her side. "Vuoi venire su amore? vieni qui. Oissa! Ooh come sei pesante. Il Babbo ti fa il mangiare buono vero?" 

Italia, having gotten what she wanted, smoothed over her frown, but still remained unsatisfied as she suckled on her thumb. Mario tried to put distance between them and Valerio, who was still rooted to the spot and unmoving, but Italia reached out to him with a whine.

"Vuole che tu la prenda, Vale," murmured Mario and Valerio stiffened.

"Non la prendo in braccio, i-io non posso." 

"Puoi odiarmi quanto ti pare ma non vedo perchè tu debba metterci di mezzo mia figlia." Paolo scowled down at the plate of french toasts, suddenly wishing he'd forgone making them in the first place.

Valerio turned to go, but his boyfriend stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Preferisci andare dal babbo tesoro? Zio Mario deve parlare con l’altro zio." He paused meaningfully and Italia babbled back at him in assent. 

Mario handed her over to Paolo, who was still quietly seething, but relaxed when his drooling daughter was happily deposited back to him. She smacked him in the face with her wet, sticky hand and he smiled through his wince.

“Hai ragione. Non staremo qui per molto.” He nuzzled her and she cooed back at him, landing another smack.

The viewings did not go well. 

Paolo had savings he’d stashed in case something went wrong (for example getting his apartment condemned and needing to move out on illegally short notice), but that had been before Italia and he’d dipped into them after she’d come. Unemployment benefits would’ve helped if they weren’t meager. And if he didn’t use a good portion each month for grocery shopping. 

All the apartments he saw were either too costly or small, or just plain unsuitable for living in with his daughter. 

If he wanted to move out he had to find another job. But that meant leaving Italia by herself until Valerio came home in the meantime and, given the fact the man was reluctant to even hold her, even then she’d be alone. 

There was no way out of this. 

After his last apartment for the day Paolo came back late, already eager to see his daughter and play with her before dinnertime. He found his room’s door ajar, Valerio inside, his back to the door, leaned over Italia’s crib with one arm inside, and before Paolo could think twice he tugged him away forcefully.

“Che diavolo stai facendo?” He hissed and then. To his surprise found that Valerio’s eyes were red and glassy. He shrugged away Paolo’s hand.

“Pensi che farei del male a un neonato?” He snarled. It didn’t have its usual edge when it was tinted with tears and he seemed to sense it, almost embarrassed about it. 

“Non so cosa penso. E credo che nemmeno tu lo sappia. Prima sei disgustato da lei, e poi sei cosa?”

“La stavo accarezzando,” he said, more brittle than he’d ever heard him. Probably more brittle than the man’s been in his life. “Sono geloso. Non disgustato. Dio, sembri un idiota in questo momento.”

“Di cosa sei geloso?” Paolo asked, careful, already fearing he knew the answer.

Valerio sighed and ducked his head, running his hand through his mess of curls. Then he huffed and raised his head to look at the ceiling with wet eyes. Whether to stop himself from crying or to ask for strength from the Almighty, Paolo couldn’t tell. Enough time passed, however, that when Valerio finally answered quietly he was startled. “Mario e io ci siamo messi insieme perchè volevamo entrambi una famiglia. Abbiamo provato molte volte ad avere bambini ma...” 

He lapsed into silence again, eyes distant.

Paolo rubbed his neck, uncomfortable and eager to have this conversation done with. “Tipo con una madre surrogata?” To his befuddlement he got a huff of laughter in response.

“No, con la posizione del missionario,” he said wryly. Then decided to spare Paolo from his misery when he explained, “Sono trans, Paolo. Female to male.”

“Oh.” He tried to think about all things he knew about trans people. He came up with nothing, save for the one trans woman he’d bummed a cigarette off of outside a gay bar once. “Okay?”

“Sono felice che tu pensi sia ok.” Valerio sounded waspish again and it was a relief. “Non abbiamo avuto fortuna. Poi mi sono dovuto sottoporre a un’Isterectomia e l’adozione era l’unica opzione a nostra disposizione. Se pensi sia dura adottare quando sei gay in italia prova ad adottare quando sei gay e trans.”

“Mi dispiace,” he said and didn’t know what for, but felt like he had to say it anyway.

“Ci siamo trasferiti in questa casa perché volevamo più spazio per potenziali bambini ma per ora non abbiamo avuto fortuna. Probabilmente non l’avremo mai. Ecco perchè mi fai arrabbiare così tanto. Hai passato anni a litigare con gente come noi che voleva figli e poi ti ritrovi un bambino che ti cade dal cielo,quando io ho dovuto--” He took a deep breath. “Non è giusto. Ecco perché sono geloso.”

Paolo couldn’t imagine it. Trying to conceive time and time again and not succeeding, and just how crushing it must’ve been. Mourning each and every possibility that never was. Unbidden, the thought of his own mother came back to him. It  _ was _ unfair. That couples like them, who desperately wanted to bring and nurture life didn’t get to. And couples who could, just brought and didn’t do much nurturing after the fact.

“Ecco che si rintana nella propria testa,” Valerio sighed, put upon. He turned back to his daughter and reached out to stroke a reverent finger down her cheek. "Questo è quanto. Non sto cercando di essere cattivo con lei. Semplicemente non posso permettermi di affezionarmi a lei e poi vedermela portare via." Italia stirred a little, rolling over on her other side, little hand finding Valerio's finger and wrapping around it. 

Valerio looked about as unmanned as Paolo himself felt whenever she did that for him.

"Forse è già troppo tardi," he whispered, more to himself than anything.

"Se ti può consolare, probabilmente non ci trasferiremo molto presto.

"No. Non succederà."

Something changed in Valerio after that. Not in the way he behaved with Paolo, but with Italia. He'd actually hold her and play with her when she came up to him.

He still called her names, but now Valerio detected the affection in them he'd neglected before.

"Quand’è che inizi a camminare polpetta?" He'd ask as she crawled on the floor, chasing after a ball. "Per ora rotoli e basta. Davvero umiliante."

Paolo thought he'd finally found the explanation for the way he was. Something in Valerio was just fundamentally fucked up. He couldn't say anything without making it aggressive. Couldn't express affection without covering it in spikes. 

His love was a hardened thing hidden under layers and layers of protective filters.

It was labour loving a man, who couldn't let himself be loved without making it a fight. And even more so when that love was unwanted to begin with. Mario and Italia had the easiest time with it. They were wired to see the truth behind each spike and were allowed to revel in the love. Paolo simply felt on edge every time Valerio walked into a room.

Paolo didn't feel like an outsider. He  _ didn't. _ He was glad to see his daughter cared for and happy. And if she could have that without him in the picture, then maybe… Maybe that was the way it should be.

Paolo kept up his flat hunt. He didn’t bring it up with the couple, because the silent looks they shot each other grated on his nerves. He’d sometimes ask one of them to look after her for a day and then he’d return more tired and defeated.

Except a plan was brewing in his mind. He didn’t like it, but it just made sense. The way what he was doing up to that point hadn’t. 

On a rare day off for both of them they offered to take Italia - or Talia as Valerio was now calling her - out on a walk, leaving Paolo to ‘rest’. He would’ve made the effort to explain he didn’t need more rest, because whenever he got it, his thoughts circled aimlessly and convinced him of all manners of horrible things. He knew, however, that his well-being wasn’t the goal of this exercise. 

He paced, cleaned the bathroom, fixed the leg on the wobbling kitchen table and then, as he was wiping the windows clean, saw them coming back. Italia was perched on Mario’s shoulders, bundled in the new winter jacket they’d bought her, staring in wonder as the first snow for the year started falling, looking happy and healthy. Mario and Valerio were shooting each other the soppiest looks. Paolo watched as Valerio reached out to tug Italia’s hat firmly over her ears, then smoothing his hand gently over her head. He looked away.

It just made sense.

"Le dobbiamo far vedere le Winx quando è un po’ più grande," Valerio said as he was flipping through one of Italia's baby books, spread out horizontally on the couch. "Ma solo le prime stagioni. Nessun bambino italiano che si rispetti guarderà quella cagata in 3-D, non in casa mia."

Paolo, who was younger than Valerio and had still been too old to watch the show as it came out said, "Anche le prime stagioni erano terribili. Non fa alcuna differenza."

"Cosa ne vuoi sapere orfanello?"

"Sono cresciuto in un orfanotrofio, non in una prigione. E, per tua conoscenza, avevamo una televisione. E non chiamarmi orfanello un’altra volta se non vuoi essere preso a pugni."

"Hanno le tv anche in prigione," Mario supplied from the kitchen table. He had Italia in his lap, who looked like she had nowhere else she'd rather be as she watched him type at a document on his computer. "Puoi farle vedere le Winx ma solo se le posso far vedere i Transformers. Oh, e i Power Rangers. Possiamo comprarle tutti i giochi! I miei genitori non me li hanno mai comprati." Valerio let out a derisive snort at that.

It was odd hearing them talk so sure of their future together with her. For them, already, it was an inevitability that they’d see her grow up.

"Paolo Dell’Orfano quale terribile cartone per bambini farai vedere a tua figlia? Per quando sarà abbastanza grande per parlare ma non abbastanza grande per avere gusto." 

He straightened up from where he was picking up scattered toys with a glare and a raised fist at Valerio. At his insouciant smirk though he sighed and let it up, as he cracked his neck in thought. He hadn't thought that far ahead.

He racked his brain for all the things he'd liked as a kid and found that it was a mix of all the other kids around him's preferences. He'd watched Cheburashka with the Ukranian boy who had been his best and only friend up until the point when he got adopted. Had watched compilations of old Tom and Jerry shorts, burned on a blank DVD by one of the more tech savvy nuns, with the younger children whenever there was a storm and they needed distraction. Had watched all the classics that cycled on TV when the holidays rolled around, always a bit too late and dubbed by the same five voice actors. 

He hadn't had a particular childhood obsession, something to glue him to one fictional world and let him get lost for a bit. This, among many other things, he couldn't pass down to Italia. 

"Non saprei. Qualsiasi cosa che è popolare tra i bambini ultimamente credo?"

Mario and Valerio both groaned at that.

"Non i Paw Patrol!" They said simultaneously. Paolo had no idea what they were talking about and felt no need to ask.

“Hey, Paolo Ritrovato.”

Paolo didn’t turn around. 

“Paolo Della Casagrande, sto parlando con te.”

He still didn’t turn away from the pot he was stirring. Whatever cooking tips Valerio felt like doling out today, he wasn’t going to take them. It was a bad day just overall. He’d spent the last few days with a sense of finality and dread weighing on his heart. If Italia had noticed that he was holding onto her a bit longer and a bit tighter than usual, she showed it by being in a bad mood herself.

“I nomignoli da orfano non erano divertenti e non lo diventeranno,” he groused.

“Paolo Fox allora.”

Paolo turned around at that. “Cos-”

“Sì l’astrologo.” Valerio smirked. “Ora che ho la tua attenzione, il tuo cellulare sta squillando da cinque minuti.”

Oh shit. That had been the call he was expecting. He threw the wooden spoon at Valerio and sped past him. “Tieni d’occhio la pentola.”

“Non vuoi che io lo faccia-” Valerio began to say, but Paolo had already shut the door behind him and drowned him out.

It had been the worst phone call he’d ever had to make. Except maybe for the break up call with Mario. Then again he hadn’t known going into it that it’d be a break up call. This he’d been preparing himself for for weeks. 

He pressed the phone against his forehead when he was done, taking a moment to center himself. It was snowing outside the window when he looked. Had been for hours it seemed, as it had piled up heavily. Even the sky was bleak and white, the city enveloped in fog.

The smell of burning hit him first thing as he walked out of the room, phone still clenched tightly in his hand. He ran toward the kitchen to find Mario returned home, lifting the lid of the pot with a frown on his face. Valerio to the side with his head in his hands.

“Devi mescolare, Vale,” Mario was saying.

“Come cazzo facevo a saperlo? mi ha solo detto di ‘tenere d’occhio la pentola’. Cosa che ho fatto.”

Paolo leaned over and winced. There went dinner. “Come è successo?”

“A Valerio è vietato mettere piede in cucina. Tutto quello che tocca si rovina.” 

“Sei un bastardo pretenzioso quando si parla di cibo e non sai nemmeno cucinare?” Paolo exclaimed, incredulous and a bit peeved.

“Chi sa fare, fa. Chi non sa fare, insegna,” murmured Mario, with the practiced ease of someone, who knew how to push the right buttons.

“Dillo di nuovo e ti spacco la faccia-”

“Si, si, d’accordo. Prima che tu lo faccia possiamo parlare del fatto che non abbiamo più niente da mangiare.” Paolo interjected as he turned the stove off, before they began their weird bickering foreplay. 

“Possiamo ordinare una pizza?” suggested Valerio.

“Le strade sono ghiacciate. Non faremo guidare qualcuno qui solo perché non riesci a tenere d’occhio una pentola.” 

“L’ho tenuta d’occhio avresti dovuto essere più specifico, testa di cazzo-”

“Immagino dovremmo mangiare questo così com’è,” decided Mario.

All three of them looked over at the pot. It smelled horrible, but it was food. It was supposed to be a good meal, over which Paolo could break the news. Something nice to top off what was surely going to be a good conversation for them, and a sour one for Paolo himself.

The one time Valerio had no complaints to be spared for the quality of the food, was when it was objectively horrible and unsalvageable. All three of them were miserably digging through it. Italia, on the other hand was having a great time playing with (read, making a mess out of) the tiny banana slices that Valerio tried to feed her. 

The one bit of levity they had were Mario’s pained facial expressions as he took a bite of a charred potato, still trying to keep a straight face through it, however as he mumbled, “mmmm, che buono!” 

Valerio and Paolo both burst out laughing. The laughter only escalated when Mario then proceeded to spit it out in a napkin. They looked at each other across the table, smiling still. And Paolo felt...well. A bit light. Like they were finally sharing something.

(Once a few weeks back Valerio had forgotten his lunch, and Paolo, Italia in his arms, had made the walk over to his department to hand it to him. Except he’d gotten lost and the gruff security guard had chased him down, yelling something rapid fire about not being allowed so far into the building and needing a pass, and Paolo struggled to explain that he just needed to see one of the staff. The man had grabbed him by the arm and Paolo had prepared himself to be roughly escorted out, when Valerio whirled suddenly on them. 

For the first time Paolo saw him turn his venom on someone else and he was a force to be reckoned with. He took his time viciously telling the man off for manhandling a, quote, ‘un omettino indifeso con un bambino’.

Paolo had taken offence at being referred to as such, but didn’t protest. Valerio looked at him pointedly, eyes saying ‘esattamente il mio punto’, as he took Italia and his lunch from him. He took his break with them in the courtyard, and it had been one of the first instances of the hesitant camaraderie between them. Mostly because Italia had been there acting as buffer.)

“Ho trovato un appartamento,” Paolo began and immediately both men turned to him sharply. “E- uh- un po’ piccolo, ma dividerò l’affitto con altre due persone quindi è fattibile mentre cerco un lavoro nel mentre.”

Valerio stared at him as if he’d grown two heads, line between his eyebrows comically deepening. Mario looked about the same.

“Tu-Paolo. Non puoi crescere un bambino in un piccolo appartamento con persone che non conosci. Dimmi che stai scherzando.”

Paolo hunched into himself further. “Si, a proposito. Ho pensato, che forse potrei lasciarla a voi. Volete un bambino ma non potete adottarlo, lo avete detto voi. Posso cedere i miei diritti e lasciarvela adottare. Ero solo genitore su carta.”

Valerio’s spoon clattered on the dish. He buried his head in his hands. Mario was gaping at him. 

That was not the reaction Paolo had been expecting.

An uncomfortable moment of silence settled over them, broken only by Italia’s growing discomfort at the atmosphere in the room. 

Valerio took a deep breath, then, “Non so nemmeno perché cazzo ho provato ad essere gentile con te. Non dovevo aspettarmi niente di meno, dopo tutto tale madre tale figlio.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stormed out of the room. 

Paolo’s eyes stung. He took a deep breath and looked at Mario, who was still looking at him in disbelief. “Per la prima volta credo di essere d’accordo con Val.” But he wasn’t angry. Just disappointed. And that hurt even more.

What had he done wrong?

“Sarebbe felice con voi,” he managed, strangled. “Al sicuro e a proprio agio. Le ho solo fatto del male quando stava con me.”

Mario shook his head, tired. He pushed away from the table as well and stood up, looming over Paolo for a moment, scrutinizing. Paolo searched his face back, trying not to give into the temptation to shrink away and hide. Then he broke their intense eye contact, reached out for Italia, lifting her out of her high chair and into his arms. She was frowning, batting at his face and trying to move away from him. Mario only smiled thinly at her and then carefully handed her over to Paolo, who was already reaching out for her.

She fit nicely into his arms, a familiar heavy weight he’d grown used to. She stopped fussing the moment she settled her head at the crook of his neck. 

“Ho bisogno che tu pensi attentamente sul volerla o non volerla lasciare, e poi ne riparliamo domani. Quando ci siamo tutti calmati.” Mario didn’t look like he needed calming down. His tone was even as ever, if a bit frostier. 

Paolo nodded dumbly and tightened his arms around Italia. 

Mario nodded back, and took his and Valerio’s dishes away, to dump them in the bin presumably, then he left them alone.

The thing was. 

He didn’t want to give her up. In just a couple of months she’d become his whole world. He felt like he hadn’t had a purpose before her and now, at last, he was finally living only so he could take care of her. 

He loved her above all else (he’d say above himself, but he’d never even liked himself to begin with). And that’s why he had to give her up. She would never be able to have the life she deserved with him; only uncertainty and life with no prospects. Valerio and Mario were stable, had good salaries both of them, and if one of them adopted her, then they could get parental leave. 

He said as much to them the next day. He was sitting on a chair, facing them where they were sitting on the couch. He felt like he was being scolded by suor Agata again. He didn’t particularly care for the feeling.

When he chanced a look up at them he found that Mario had eased the hard frown he’d been wearing. Valerio was still glaring daggers at him. 

“Sembra un’idea perfetta. Ma perchè deve essere o uno o l’altro. O lei vive con te lontano da noi o lei resta ma te ne vai te. Anche te puoi fare parte della famiglia, Paolo.”

That made the gears in his head suddenly grind to a halt.

“No, non posso. Qui non c’è posto per me sono-”

“Cosa sei, signor Orfanetti?” Valerio finally spoke up. “Un codardo? Un pollo senza spina dorsale?”

“Non sono fatto per avere una famiglia. Non sono fatto per badare a una cosa così buona e pura. Cosa posso insegnarle da genitore? Quel che ho fatto con la mia vita è abbastanza da essere passato a qualcun altro? Sta meglio senza di me.” Paolo took a deep breath and realized he was panting. He’d managed to exert himself by speaking out the anxieties that had been plaguing him since day one. In the daylight, spoken out loud, they sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

“Oh ma per favore,” Valerio’s voice was a drawl. “vuoi sapere cosa ho notato, Paolo?” 

“Sono sicuro che me lo stai per dire-” he muttered as Valerio spoke over him. 

“-cerchi sempre di farti piccolo. Non credo tu abbia mai lottato per qualcosa in vita tua. Ti autoconvinci e te lo fai andare bene.” Valerio folded his arms over his chest, but it didn't look defensive. He was just making himself comfortable as he leaned back and prepared himself for a speech. “Ecco perchè sei così infelice ogni volta. Volevi fare l’architetto ma non credevi di esserne capace quindi ti sei accontentato di lavorare all’IKEA. Volevi una famiglia ma non pensavi di esserne capace, quindi ti sei inventato una storiella di come i gay non possano avere figli così da autoconvincerti delle tue stesse stronzate. Ora stai cercando di scappare da noi che ti accogliamo a casa nostra perchè pensi che ‘Talia stia meglio senza te quando in realtà hai solo paura di provarci.”

He sorely wanted to ask how Valerio knew all this about him, but feared the answer would be 'because Mario talked about his shitty ex after you split up'. It would've been a distraction anyway. From how uncomfortably seen he felt then, pinned under Valerio's unrelenting gaze. “Io-”

“Talia ti ama. Ha bisogno di te e tu hai bisogno di lei. Probabilmente di più," Mario was the one to interrupt him this time. "Quindi perchè non puoi convincerti, anche solo un po’, che sei sei degno abbastanza per lei?"

Because he just wasn't! Good things didn't happen to Paolo! He'd been orphaned as a baby, troppo piccolo per poter dire qualcosa a riguardo, e da lì in poi il fato lo aveva baciato e dichiarato insignificante. Troppo gracilino per meritarsi un po’ di buon karma di questo mondo. É stato quasi adottato due volte e ogni volta ha spaventato via la coppia con la sua erroneità. É stato amato da Mario per quasi un decennio e poi ha sfanculato tutto in un modo così strabiliante che lo ha perso completamente.Mia è arrivata nella sua vita e poi- ha inacidito tutto nella sua vita e potrà solo inacidire la vita di qualsiasi bambino sfortunato abbastanza da chiamarlo padre.

A sob tore its way out of his throat as he said the word, and realized belatedly he hadn't kept all of this in his head. He pressed a shaking hand to his eyes and looked away.

"Paolo," a hand tugged on his wrist, he let it be pulled away, but didn't look toward Mario. Careful fingers were in his hair then, stroking him gently. He wanted to shrink away, wanted to dissolve into mist and rid the world of the memory that he'd ever existed at all. "Immagina se Italia ti avesse detto le stesse cose che hai detto a noi. Vuoi che ammetta il fatto che ha creduto di dover occupare il minor spazio possibile? Che merita meno del meglio che il mondo le può offrire?”

“No. No non lo voglio. Mi spezzerebbe il cuore.”

The hand slid to his cheek and pressed into it, the warmth searing his cold skin. He felt cold all over actually. The ends of his fingers prickled as if pins were being pressed into them.

“Saresti dovuto crescere sapendo di valere molto, Paolo. Ma non è successo perché nessuno te lo ha detto, e va bene dispiacersi per questo. Ma devi imparare a occupare spazio o Talia non lo imparerà mai e finirà per fare gli stessi tuoi errori. Devi essere felice, se non per te, allora per lei.”

Paolo felt himself pulled up and into Mario’s embrace. He held him there, the same way he had embraced him his first night with them. ‘Non sei più solo’ he’d said. Paolo hadn’t believed it then. Still couldn’t now. But he was about to start learning how.

Che tu lo voglia o no ti abbiamo già accolto in casa nostra. Sia Italia che te,” he laughed into Paolo’s hair. “Quindi resta con noi. Siamo una famiglia.”

“Che tipo di famiglia è una con un terzo incomodo,” Paolo muttered, allowing himself to wrap his arms around his middle. Basking, just a little, in his warmth.

“Può essere qualsiasi famiglia vogliamo. Ma stavo pensando a una con tre padri e un bambino molto fortunato,” Mario pressed his wide hand against the nape of his neck and pulled away to look at him. 

“Volevi dire due padri e due bambini con tutti gli sforzi che facciamo per starti dietro,” Valerio said and stood up to leave, brushing a hand against Paolo’s arm as he went. “Le strade non sono ghiacciate oggi quindi ordino la pizza.”

“É un sì vero? La smetterai di cercare di scappare via?” Mario asked and shook Paolo’s head a little.

“Forse...forse se ho voi al mio fianco, allora sì. Starò meglio,” he promised. And it felt like the beginning of something.

Perhaps he  _ was _ too fucked up for kids. But it wasn’t going to be just him taking care of her. However bad he messed up, there were going to be two more people there with him, helping him along the way. Picking him up and taking over when things were too difficult. 

So what if it was unconventional, so long as it worked?

It was early spring. Valerio was grading assignments in his office (what was technically the ex guest room and Paolo’s future bedroom once they were done painting the nursery). Mario was in the kitchen, making his infamous tiramisu, which was delicious, but garnered criticism from both Paolo and Valerio for his use of pavesini instead of savoiardi. 

Paolo was on the floor with his daughter, both of them laying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling. They had a pretty good back and forth going. Where she babbled at him and he responded back at her with whatever came to mind. 

This time it was ‘Il Tuono’ by Pascoli.

“-Rimbombò, rimbalzò, rotolò cupo/ e tacque, e poi rimareggiò rinfranto/e poi vanì. Soave allora un canto/ s'udì di madre, e il moto di una culla-”

He cut himself off when Italia crawled over to the couch and grabbed hold of it to haul herself up. 

“Non sono così noioso vero? Che pubblico difficile,” he muttered and lovingly reached out to stroke a hand down her back. 

Except, instead of staying there as she was prone to do, or hauling herself a few more times, she actually turned and began to waddle.

Whatever loud yelp he released, it was enough to summon both Valerio and Mario in the room, asking what happened, and then releasing similar yelps of their own.

“Il mio telefono! Prendi il mio telefono!” Valerio was saying, and then all three of them were around her, clapping and cheering as she made step after the other, waddling, but certain.

When she made her way toward Paolo, she crashed into his leg and rubbed her face there. 

Paolo was sure his face was swimming in tears, was even surer that Valerio had just snapped a photo of it to make fun of him with later. He didn’t care. Mario was the same.

What he cared about was that when he lifted her in his arms to embrace her, there were two more bodies pressing into him.

When Italia made her first attempts at walking there were three pairs of hands hovering over her, triple the amount of videos, and two people shedding emotional tears, while being laughed at.


End file.
